


Sugar

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Sugar 'Verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Coercion, Gen, Illegal Activities, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: Steve doesn't know it at this point, won't figure it out for quite some time because he's never met a man like James Barnes Jr., but this, this is how Steve Rogers gets himself a man who'll take care of him the rest of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my Sugar Daddy AU, but instead it's my Gangster AU. There was supposed to be sex but instead there isn't.
> 
> I will, however, be taking prompts for little bits and pieces for this over at [my tumblr](http://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com/ask), and there may be more at a later date. So come and ask me why Steve is grateful for the blinds, or why JB Jr. gets mad in summer.

They're still living in their little place, their worn-down, rickety, draughty place, and they're okay.

The building gets sold, when Mr Kalinowski gets old and tired. The rent, they're told won't go up in the next few months. 

Steve always liked Mr Kalinowski.

Steve is horrendously sick when the new landlord asks everyone to go meet him at the community hall, and his mother is barely better. Mrs Gill from next door says that he seems nice, but Steve is too busy coughing up a lung to verify that for himself.

~

It takes two weeks before he meets a good-looking young man in the stairwell on his way in from work, and Steve does not trip over his own feet trying to get up the stairs but it's a close run thing. 

“You must be Rogers,” the guy says, in a voice that says maybe he oughta be home in front of a fire with a blanket, a kerchief, and a hot toddy, and Steve turns his back to the wall of the stairwell and frowns at the guy. 

This is someone who's maybe ten, fifteen years older than Steve is himself. He'd guess closer to around ten – this guy must be around thirty and, at nineteen years old, Steve is not inexperienced, but he does feel cornered, and he knows he looks young. 

“Who's askin'?” Steve answers, because it wouldn't be the first time someone's come in off the street figuring they've got an easy win on their hands. 

The guy smiles – big broad smile under cool grey eyes – as he shoves one hand out toward Steve. He smells of leather and cigarette smoke. 

“Barnes,” he says, and Steve's shoves his books and papers under his arm, shaking that hand before the sensation of where do I know that name from gives way to the memory of whom he's actually speaking to. 

“Oh,” Steve says, kind of stupidly, “oh, I-”

“Good I got to meet you. Didn't see you around a couple weeks ago.”

Steve wonders if that's an accusation, and isn't quite sure how to respond.

“No, Sir,” he says, hoping showing his elder some respect might help. “We were having a little trouble with the weather.”

Barnes smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling. There's silver at his temples, and he wears a three-piece suit in a style Steve worries about dreaming of, let alone actually owning himself. The Barneses come from Money – all of Irish Brooklyn knows it, and a lot more of Brooklyn besides. 

“You got your rent all ready?” Barnes asks, and Steve stop shaking his hand, feels hot and cold shoot up his spine at once, feels the heat in his face, and runs through dates in his head at a rate that might trigger an asthma attack.

“It's not the twenty-first,” he says, because he's sure it's not, he's sure the date hasn't changed or Mrs Gill would have told him so, he can't have spent so much on his Ma that he didn't keep enough back.

Barnes laughs, throws his head back like this is hilarious.

“Jeez, cool it, wouldja?” he chuckles, and Steve's not sure about the way Barnes looks him up and down. “I was just tryin' to make conversation. What is it you do, anyway?”

“Copywriting,” he says. “Some drawing. The...the local paper, they have advertisements and I do some of those.”

Barnes nods. 

“Show me,” he says, and Steve can't help glancing up the stairs – he's had a long few days, and he was looking forward to taking a load off, and his Ma was worse than usual when he left her this morning. “What, you late? Got a dame waitin' for you?”

“No” Steve answers, before he considers that he does, really.

He pulls the papers back out from under his arm and passes one sketchbook to Barnes. It's not much. There's a potential ad for beer, one about tooth powder, one about a show that's coming up about trade and whatnot, and it's not Steve's better work. But then, Steve's better work is of figure studies and things that are either half-remembered or half-imagined. 

“Hey, these are good,” Barnes says, sniffing loudly before swiping his fingers under his nose, speaking more to himself than to Steve.

“Thank you,” he says, hoping Barnes will hand the sketchbook back soon.

He does – almost instantly – and then he gives Steve another one of those broad grins. It's a nice smile, something playful in his eyes, but Steve only met the guy two minutes ago.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Barnes says, holding out his hand again.

Steve shoves everything under his arm for the second time and shakes Barnes' hand again.

“See you next week,” Barnes tells him, and then he hustles past Steve and out into the street.

For a moment or five, Steve stares after him, replaying the conversation in his head as he tries to discern whether or not Barnes was trying to shake him up. 

There's a week until rent's due, and Steve and his Ma will be absolutely fine.

~

Steve and his Ma make the rent, plus a dollar fifty.

Steve also gets fired.

He catches a cold – probably Barnes' – and while he struggles through the first day, he's laid up for another two. His mother's well enough to work, and so she is – shift after shift while he wastes all that time in bed, and he tries not to take it personally when he gets in to find someone else at his desk.

They're sorry, they tell him, like God knows how many people have told him before, but they need somebody reliable.

Need, Steve thinks, as though he doesn't have a million and two needs of his own. Still, he's not the type to show it, so when they wish him the best and tell him, 'good luck,' he says,

“You too,” as though he means something by it, and then he leaves.

~

He skips lunch three days in a row, tells his Ma that he ate, and knows she skips dinner once, too, but they get Barnes the rent on time.

He tries not to think about what in hell they're going to do next month.

~

Book balancing, Mr Pointer tells him, is an art.

To Steve, drawing is art, and book balancing is a steady paycheck. He's missed out on two other interviews that month, and he'll take what he can get.

It would seem what he can get is peanuts for good work, but he can pay the rent with those peanuts, and he gets praised for working through a lunch he skips first and foremost to forget he has nothing to eat.

He leaves when it's dark and gets home when it's dark, and he mixes up a pot of oatmeal on one night for both of them. He's careful with his peanuts the way he and his Ma have been for years, so they can afford it. As long as he doesn't get sick (because getting sick is something they can't afford at all).

~

One one such evening, when it's dark and it's cold, they actually get the rent in two days early.

Barnes is visiting Seamus Kilkenny four doors down from Steve and they just so happen to pass.

Seamus is liable to turn the colour of a beet if someone so much as looks at him funny, but there's no mistaking the irritation on his features when Barnes steps out of his doorway, or how hard the door slams after him.

“Trouble?” Steve says, as Barnes whistles his way past, and Barnes looks at him and smiles. 

And he does, he does, have a very nice smile.

“No trouble,” he says, raising one eyebrow as his smile turns into a grin. “How about you?”

Steve doesn't miss the way Barnes looks him up and down like he's a threat, but Steve knows – Steve is a lot of things. A threat is not one of them.

“Actually,” Steve says as his door swings open, “I've got something for you.”

Barnes' other eyebrow joins the first, and he follows Steve inside. The place is not really fit for guests, and Steve's not sure if he meant Barnes to follow him in, but it's Barnes' building anyhow, isn't it? His mother isn't here, so there'll be no catching her unawares at least.

“Go on,” Barnes tells him, a gleam in his eye Steve can't decipher.

Steve goes into the empty bread-bin for the rent and hands it over.

“I figure I got it, you can take it, right?”

Barnes narrows his eyes a little, as though he's surprised this is what Steve wanted to give him, but Steve doesn't falter. He doesn't know what Barnes expected, but he knows what he wants Barnes to take, and it's hard-earned money in a manilla envelope.

“Thanks,” Barnes says, sly like, and he takes the envelope and tucks it inside his jacket. “Save you spendin' it on booze a women, huh?”

Steve laughs, hopes it sounds real, and tries not to think of bacon, of hot buttered toast, of steak and kidney pie. He'll either be spending it on his own upkeep or his mother's, and she's been doing the same for him for long enough. All the money he can pass on goes to her, and it might never be enough, but he's damned sure gonna try.

“You bet.”

Barnes sketches him a little salute and says “See you next month, Rogers,” as though Rogers were a secret, and then he leaves and shuts the door behind him.

Steve burned some of the oatmeal to the bottom of the pan but he doesn't care. It's warm and it's filling, and he can put a little salt on.

Not jam. He and his Ma are saving the jam.

~ 

It goes on this way for another three months, until Barnes puts the rent up by five percent to cover the cost of maintenance, and then they are screwed, within two months.

During the first, he catches something from someone, and they wind up giving everything left to the doctor. He can't get out of it – Mrs Gill, who's lovely but whose walls are paper-thin and whose good heart is no match for either Steve's or his mother's incomes, insists. He skips a couple of meals that his Ma thinks he's eating, walks to work in shoes that need replacing (have needed replacing since the onset of winter last year) and does his best not to think about the fact that payday is four days after the rent is due and his Ma's last double shift didn't pay as well as they expected.

Barnes let it slide the first month, tells him not to worry – he knows Steve is good for it. Steve doesn't need charity, but his gratitude is not misplaced. But the problem with that is, he's taken money out of his rent next month to pay this month.

His mother works longer hours, and he hates it. He hates not seeing her, hates the bags under her eyes – she's so young, such a beautiful young woman. And she's so tired, he can see it settling into her bones.

He sells a couple of drawings to his old firm – they do it as a favour, and don't give him what they're worth. He gets rid of a couple of pans they're never going to use, and makes barely anything, but they're going to scrape by, just scrape by. If Barnes will let Steve be four days late again.

He doesn't tell his mother they're late.

He gets home on the twenty-first, hands and feet aching, lungs burning, to find Barnes at his door. 

“Evening,” Barnes says, flicking his cigarette away, and Steve's blood goes cold.

“Hello,” Steve answers, as nonchalantly as possible.

He's got two options – own up, or lie, and he knows which option he should take. He also knows which option would be better for him.

“Ain't you gonna invite me in for coffee?” Barnes asks, and Steve kicks the brick to one side that he keeps his door key under. 

Nobody thinks to look because nobody figures there'd be anything worth stealing inside (they're right).

“Your building, isn't it? Steve says, and then remembers it's in his best interests not to put Barnes' back up, so he tugs his scarf down to flash a smile. “All I can offer you's hot water right now.”

They drank the last of the coffee a couple weeks back, and feeding two people on what they make ain't easy. His Ma won't put less on his plate than hers, though he knows she oughta. Won't take his leftovers instead – she tells him the same thing she always has.

“You were put on this earth for me to love you,” she says. “I'm your mother; you'll do as I say.”

And if that doesn't work, she uses guilt. He knows why – it's because he needs the red meat, needs the oats, needs the milk. But it hurts him to hear her tell him she worked hard for the meals he's eating, and that she won't have him waste it.

He'd never waste it – he'd give it to her. She just gives him a look, and he can't stand that.

Barnes smiles that charming smile, looks Steve up and down the way he's wont to do, and then shrugs.

“I could go for hot water,” he says, and Steve can feel his chest getting tight as well as sore. 

He's better off inside and, if it'll put Barnes off, maybe that's not so bad.

“Sure,” he says, managing to get the door open without dropping his papers.

They walk inside one at a time, and Barnes goes past Steve while Steve tries to get the key back out of the lock. The damned thing sticks, has stuck for a long time, but Steve worries about mentioning it, or the draughty windows, for fear Barnes will put up the rent again.

When Steve manages to close the door, he leans on it for a moment, and then he starts dragging his outer layers off his body.

“What are you doing these days?” Barnes' voice asks, quieter than it should be, and Steve turns to find him touring the apartment.

He bites back his indignation and grinds his teeth instead.

“Numbers, for Pointer,” he says, and Barnes nods from where he stands by their meager collection of books.

“I know pointer,” he says. “Mean bastard.”

Pointer is mean with his money but not with his employees, and he's known by pretty much every businessman in Brooklyn. Steve smells a test, so he shrugs one shoulder without turning around.

“He's a good man, we're all on hard times.”

Barnes makes a non-committal noise behind him and Steve goes over to boil a pan of water. He wasn't kidding. Still, he knows Barnes has stopped surveying the apartment to stare at him – he can feel it. Years of getting himself into situations he can only just get himself out of alive have taught him to be aware of who's watching him and when.

He sets a light under the pan, and turns to face Barnes, folding his arms across his chest as he leans back against the counter. His body wants him to cough but he forces it back.

“I like you,” Barnes tells him, looking kind of sad, and here it comes.

“I don't have the rent,” Steve says, and Barnes' smile vanishes. “I'm not gonna give you excuses – I got sick, we don't make enough to cover the doctor and the day-to-day as well,but I get paid in four days, my Ma by the end of the week. We'll get it to you then.”

“Steve,” Barnes says, and Steve turns back to the stove.

“You wanna throw me out, that's fine. You gotta give me a week, though – Mr Kalinowski wrote it in. And it ain't my Ma's fault. I'll find somewhere else, but she stays.”

There's a long silence, during which Steve honestly isn't sure whether Barnes is watching him or not, and then Barnes' footsteps cross the room.

“You're killin' me, Steve,” he says, and sounds like he actually means it. “Come on. This gonna be a regular thing?”

“I'm hopin' for a payrise if I can prove what 'm worth to Pointer,” he says. “I'm runnin' outta things to sell.”

“I know a couple of guys,” Barnes tells him, and Steve knows guys like that too. The type to offer you money in a way that makes it sound like it's not going to end in a bloodbath. 

“I like my kneecaps,” he answers, and then shuts his eyes.

Barnes is right behind him, and Steve really oughta watch his mouth when his landlord is within touching distance, but it's true. He's not going that route.

Barnes' cologne is strong and expensive, and it smells warm. It's hurting Steve's nose.

“Four days,” Barnes tells him. “Don't let me down, kiddo. And maybe consider a new line of work by next month.”

Steve doesn't turn his head to watch Barnes leave, doesn't follow him to the door either. Barnes shuts the door behind him, says hullo to Maisie from down the other end, and Steve thinks maybe this is the kind of conversation Barnes had with Seamus Kilkenny. Your money or your life, and top of the morning to the rest of you.

Steve knows men like Barnes. Can't be raised in Brooklyn without knowing men like Barnes.

The one thing Steve doesn't know is what the hell he and his Ma are going to do.

~

Barnes shows up for the rent on the twenty-sixth, nice as pie, and thanks Steve as though he weren't threatening him without words less than a week ago when Steve's got it ready for him. His Ma's asleep in bed - she's had another night shift – and she stirs enough to ask who it was when Steve closes the door.

~

Summer passes easier for both of them. They don't have to pay to stock the stove, and the coolbox means they don't have to buy as little as often – they can keep some, save some money. His Ma's always been the type to cut the mold off the bread, and Steve's not the type to complain.

Mrs Gill complains about the draughts, after a storm that soaks the ends of his Ma's curtains, and Steve loves Mrs Gill but he could kill her. They can't afford for Barnes to put the rent up again. 

Pointer's raise is more of a bonus. It happens once and then doesn't again, but it's enough to bring them up to speed and keep them there while March turns to June turns to July. August, Steve nearly dies from an Asthma attack – the goddamn trees right outside his office shed so much pollen he can see it floating around on the breeze. Some of it gets in and on his desk, and he goes home wheezing each night but his Ma still knows how to rub his back, still checks his forehead for fevers, and still presses her lips to his cheek before she goes to bed.

They'll be fine. They'll be just fine.

~

At the end of August, he gets into a fight over some jerk who won't leave a hard-working barkeep alone. He breaks his nose (he gets his nose broken) and he's pretty sure there's something not quite right with his left ear, but that's always been the case.

It's one of many fights, but Barnes comes for the rent when Steve's busy soaking blood out of his only other good shirt, which Steve's had the good fortune to avoid up until now. He's down to his undershirt, and doesn't think about it before he opens the door – he's ready for it to be his mother, and he's already opening his mouth to tell her he hasn't started dinner.

“Oh,” he says, and Barnes invites himself in while Steve goes for the envelope.

Barnes is smoking a cigarette, and he brings it in with him this time. Neither Steve nor his mother smoke in the house, neither of them smoke at all with his asthma, but he's not about to say that to Barnes.

Steve catches sight of his own face in the reflection in the window when he goes for the bread-bin. His right eye looks bloodshot, and there's a boot-polish black smear underneath. His nose is swollen over the break, skin broke too, and his lower lip is swollen enough to make it look like he's real heartbroken over something.

“Fall down the stairs?” Barnes asks, a wry twist to his lips.

God, what on earth will his mother say?

“Punched a guy in the face for tryin' to glass a barkeep,” he says.

Barnes laughs. 

“I should see the other guy?” he says, and Steve looks him dead in the eye.

“Couldn't tell you,” he says, because it's hard to see when you're unconscious.

Barnes regards him.

“Know what the asshole's called?” Barnes asks, and Steve raises one eyebrow.

It hurts right now, but he's good at it, and he knows it's a big enough gesture on his little face that Barnes won't miss the meaning.

“If I knew, I wouldn't say,” he says with half a shrug. “Nobody got glassed.”

“You got your ass kicked,” Barnes answers, and Steve holds out the envelope.

“See you next month,” he says.

Barnes leaves.

~

By the time winter rolls around again proper, Barnes is a regular face around them. He's amicable enough – stops to ask them how they are, leaves Seamus Kilkenny on slightly better terms than before, if the look on Seamus' face is anything to go by.

Steve falls on black ice in mid October, cuts up his hand, and that's bad. That's real bad because it's his right hand, and he needs it to work. He scrapes up his right knee something terrible, too, and it aches for days – his Ma puts stitches in his palm and they hurt something awful, but she's a nurse. She knows what she's doing. 

By the time the twenty-first rolls around, Steve's barely able to move his fingers, and it's showing. He still works – he will whatever happens. But it's agony, means he can't help his Ma make a good meal of an evening, and he drops two plates (out of four) in one week.

He cusses at himself, grateful only for the fact that it wasn't one of his grandmother's, and for the fact his Ma wasn't here to hear him cussing, and then nearly drops a third when Barnes clears his throat from the doorway just as he's trying to figure how to clear up from plate number two.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, and then clenches his jaw – Barnes has a key, of course.

“Lord's name,” Barnes tells him, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Need to go to confession anyway,” he says. 

“Say a Hail Mary for me,” Barnes answers, and Steve goes for the bread bin. “Hold it, you punk, stand still. Where the hell are your shoes?”

Steve looks at him, looks at the floor where the shards of crockery gleam in the low light, and points towards the ratty pair of shoes he's still making last from this time last year.

“Darn,” Barnes says, but that's all he says. 

He doesn't talk about the holes in Steve's socks. Doesn't talk about the way Steve's clothes hang off him. He just walks over, trying not to crunch the porcelain into the wooden floor or tread it into the rug, and then he holds out Steve's shoes. 

The other thing he does is hold out a hand when Steve looks for something to lean on so he can get his shoes on his feet.

Steve picks the counter, and Barnes huffs a laugh, but Steve gets his shoes on, and gives Barnes the rent, and starts to pick up the pieces.

“Here,” Barnes tells him. “God's sake, you'll cut your own hand off.”

“I'm not an idiot,” Steve counters angrily, and Barnes nods.

“Never said you were.” he says. “But there ain't much of you to cut. Papercut'd slice you in two, wouldn't it?”

Steve stares at him a second, and then finds himself warming.

“You,” he says, “jerk.”

Barnes flashes him that grin again.

“Still workin' for Pointer?” he says, and Steve nods, coughing (damn that hurts), picking up the biggest pieces first.

“It's a paycheck,” he says. 

Barnes says “hmm.”

When there's no more shards on the floor, he shakes off Steve's 'thank you' and takes the envelope when he leaves.

~

“Can you draw me a picture?” Barnes says to him one evening, waiting outside Steve's door.

Steve retrieves the key from under the brick and says, “I can't afford to go drawin' you cartoons.”

“I'll pay you five dollars for it,” he says, and Steve freezes.

That's half a week's pay, that'd let his Ma get a good meal, that might mean he can gets her something.

He hates that he froze when Barnes said it, hates that he was so obviously arrested by the amount, hates that Barnes knows him well enough that the offer's interesting.

But he's cold. And he's hungry. 

“And what do you want me to draw you a picture of?” Steve asks, and then he waits for it.

There's not a whole lot that he can think of that James Barnes would want a hand-drawn picture of.

“My mother,” he says. “It's her birthday and I want to find her something my sisters can't outdo.”

Steve turns back to look at him, fingers stiff, head aching.

“And how long do I have?” he says.

“Two months,” Barnes answers. “I'll pay you in advance.”

Steve chews the inside of his cheek and thinks about it. He's not sure when he'll have time but for that? The money and the rest it'll let his Ma take? He'll make time.

“Just take it out of my rent.”

Barnes beams, and reaches into his jacket. 

“I have a picture,” he says. “When can you be done by?”

Steve shrugs and turns to go inside.

“I'll let you know. I gotta do it in the evenings so it'll take me a little while.”

Barnes laughs. “Take a day off!”

“Can't afford it,” Steve answers and, as the door swings shut behind him, Barnes says,

“You should come work for me!”

~

It's not the first time Barnes suggests this. 

It takes Steve two weeks working all the evening God sends to make a picture of Mrs Barnes that looks like Mrs Barnes.

“You always manage such a good likeness,” his Ma tells him, “like a photograph,” and Mrs Barnes' son is delighted. 

“Coffee,” he says, the next time he sees Steve. “It's on me, I insist!”

And Steve isn't going to turn it down because there are whispers about Barnes. Seamus Kilkenny doesn't live down the hall any more and Mrs Gill's doors don't let a draught in. Barnes seems like the kind of man you want to be on the right side of, and refusing his hospitality probably isn't the best way to make that happen.

Except that coffee means alcohol.

He leaves a note for his Ma and then they go out to some bar, and Barnes has too much to drink, but they have a good time. Steve gets between some guy and a gal who doesn't want to dance, and he nearly gets his block knocked off outside in the alleyway. He gets shoved into a puddle and he's spitting curses despite a bloody lip, but James Barnes could charm a steak from a starving wolf and still make a friend of the wolf.

“You're mighty fuckin' stupid,” James Barnes says, voice low, at Steve Rogers' front door. 

“You're drunk, Mr Barnes,” he says, and Barnes pulls a face at him.

“Boy young as you shouldn't be like you are. Come work for me,” Barnes tells him, and Steve points toward the road.

“You gonna be just dandy getting' home alone?”

Barnes seems to sober up a great deal, fast, and he looks at Steve dead on, unwavering.

“Sure,” he says, and then he turns around and walks away. 

Steve tries not to be sore at him, tries not consider this good looking guy with his three piece suits and top shelf liquor dictating how much money Steve has until he's out on his ass.

He has to get inside and get to bed because he has to be up in the morning.

He's got to be at work.

~

He doesn't make it to work.

In the morning, he's shivering so hard he can't get out of bed, and this is not the first time. Probably walking outside with wet clothes from that damned puddle.

He doesn't remember much of it but his mother tells him all he needs to know when it's over – by the third day, Mr Pointer calls Mr Barnes and asks that Mr Barnes let him know Steve needn't come in any longer.

Mr Barnes calls Mrs Gill who calls a doctor, and then Barnes lets himself and both of them into Steve's apartment. His Ma comes home somewhere in the middle, her hands small and cool.

Steve loses days.

¬

When he wakes enough to speak, she tells him not to.

~

There are voices, and he knows them, but he can't make the words come to speak to them. One of them tells him to stay down, and Steve tells 'em where they can shove that.

There are hands at his shoulders, two against one, and Steve could laugh – these guys are all the same.

He tells 'em where they oughta get off, says a few things about their mothers that his own wouldn't be proud of, and then he fights all the harder because she's raised him right and damned if he's dying now and throwing that gift in her face.

~

Steve takes his time getting better.

He starts sitting up, talking, he can keep down food and water he knows he didn't pay for and, through the whole thing, Mr Barnes smiles beatifically from the other end of the room.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asks, and Barnes cocks his head by way of a shrug.

“Pointer told me you don't need to come in Monday. Or, y'know. Whenever you're better.”

Steve drops his head into his hands.

“Shit,” he says, before he thinks not to, and Barnes laughs softly. “I funny to you?”

“If I say yes, you gonna slug me?”

Barnes has years on him. Steve is not a child, but he's just turned twenty this year, and he's out of a job, and he's pretty sure Barnes is waiting for him to get better so that he can kick him out guilt free.

“What do you want from me?” he says. “Did I sleep through payment day?”

Barnes snorts, but he stands.

“I just want you better,” he says. “I need a new assistant and you start as soon as you can stand.”

Steve stares at him.

“What?” he says.

“Unless you and your Ma want to be out by next month?”

Steve stares at him, sets his jaw. 

This is...

He didn't expect to have to make a choice like this. No matter how often he gets sick, no matter how often he falls or fails, he always made it. They always did just fine. He always got a job somewhere, even small, just to help his mother out. He's never been faced with something like this and half of him wants to say he'll find a new job.

“What makes you so sure I'm going to come work for you?” Steve says, and Barnes looks at the knitted blanket over Steve's legs, the framed photograph on the bookshelf. 

“It's up to you,” he says. “But you seem to think playing nice with me might get you somewhere.”

Steve's outraged by the suggestion, feels his face flush hot but he doesn't have the strength to stand and confront him.

“I don't own the building,” Barnes tells him, and Steve feels his hackles rise.

“What?” he says, and Barnes shrugs.

“J. Barnes is the owner, but it ain't this J. Barnes. I'm J.B, he's J.G - that's my father – he ain't the type to be reasoned with.”

Steve swallows hard, feeling suddenly trapped.

“We could sell everything we own, gives us another month,” Steve says, but he can't speak for his mother, shouldn't pretend that he can.

Barnes just smiles at him in a way Steve can't figure – it's not sad, it's not pitying but there's something there.

“Thing is,” Barnes tells him, “you don't have to. Come work for me – I like your attitude. You don't take any shit and you know what you're about. I need somebody on my side, you need my money on yours. Take the job.”

Steve chews the inside of his cheek, stares Barnes down. Barnes waits a full thirty seconds before he turns around.

“Offer's open,” he says. “You know how to reach me.”

Steve doesn't, but Mrs Gill evidently does.

And then Barnes leaves, and Steve sits in his bedroom in silence and thinks about how good a steak dinner would be if they could afford it, thinks about the next time they're going to have pay the doctor, thinks about the next time James Barnes comes around.

~

It takes him another two days to get back on his feet, which makes it a Thursday, and he doesn't ask his mother what she thinks. There isn't time.

“You start tomorrow,” Barnes tells him, and Steve puts down the telephone and runs his fingers through his hair, and wonders what the hell he's got himself into.

He tells his Ma, and she's surprised, but she wishes him luck and hugs him tight and maybe things will start to look up for the two of them.

~

Friday's easy.

“You'll be up with me and to bed with me,” Barnes says. “Do you drive?”

Steve shakes his head, and Barnes shrugs.

“I drive,” Barnes tells him. “Monday morning, I want you in at seven, understand?”

Steve grinds his teeth but nods, and he spends the day answering the telephone and pencilling in appointments, keeping track of expenses, making coffee.

He's a secretary. At an undertaker's.

But he's inside where it's, mercifully, warm. He's got a chair and a desk and the people who pass through the little office look at him like they think he's weak until he stares them down, and then they go on with their business inside another office marked “B. Jr.” on the door.

Steve doesn't know yet what Barnes does here – so far he seems to be a consultant. He knows the family was in metalworking before. Barnes Steel is still fairly widely used in Brooklyn.

Friday night, Barnes passes him on the way out, as he pushes his hat down onto his head.

“I don't work the Sabbath unless somebody higher up needs it,” he says – that's his father's work, apparently, “but I do work Saturdays. I'm gonna let you off this week.”

Steve leans back in his chair and sighs through his nose, nodding. 

“You want a ride back?” Barnes asks, and Steve shakes his head, getting to his feet.

“I can walk it,” he says, and Barnes looks at him like he said something funny. 

How indebted to this guy does he want to be? Steve goes for his jacket instead.

“Oh, and by the way?” Barnes says, and Steve stops to look at him.

Barnes stands still in his three-piece suit, his coat, his hat, and puts a roll of battered paper on the desk.

Holy shit.

“You've got until Monday to get the type of clothes we want seen in this establishment. You got it?”

Steve feels his mouth fall open, and Barnes just gives him that charming smile.

“Me, I don't care if you work in your underthings, but Da? Don't let him catch you in those.”

Steve looks down at himself, and then looks back up, but Barnes is gone.

Steve doesn't know it at this point, won't figure it out for quite some time because he's never met a man like James Barnes Jr., but this, this is how Steve Rogers gets himself a man who'll take care of him the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning comes far too quickly, and Steve has never felt more self-conscious than he does staring at the two-piece suit that's laid out on his bed.

It's six in the morning, and he bathed the night before. His hair's holding the part he put in it, and he feels kind of sick. This suit, the money it cost – it was the cheapest he could find that still looks nice. All black, like Barnes', he forewent the waistcoat. He can't afford to pay back the money for the waistcoat. He finally, finally, picked himself up a pair of shoes, but he's hoping the jacket will hide the shirt. He didn't dare get a new one and, what looked white against the pallor of his skin looks grey against the crisp black suit.

“Let's take a look at you,” his mother says, and he's seen the kids who look annoyed when their mothers speak to them.

Not Steve.

Steve's mother's an angel and he loves her and, when she straightens his cuffs and teases at his hair, he can't imagine how he managed to be so lucky as to have the love of a woman like Sarah Rogers.

“I love you, Ma,” he says, and she smiles. 

“I love you, too,” she says. “Now I'm to bed. Off with you, and take something for lunch.”

He leaves without breakfast. He takes his papers and his inhaler and he gets the hell out because Friday was a test, and this is the real deal.

~

He walks because he can, because it's not too far to walk, and he'll be there in plenty of time, and it's frosty this morning. The sidewalk sparkles and the clouds of his breaths pass through the scarf and leave it damp, make every breath in a little cooler.

He says good morning to Mr George, the grocer, who's setting up his shop and his baskets, and he doesn't buy a paper although he kind of feels he ought. 

The Barnes' office is a nondescript little place – you'd never know it was there less you knew to look for it. It's like every other house on the row, save for the door. The door's black at the top of the stone steps, and flaking, half-worn gold letters proclaim it “Barnes Barnes & Barnes, Funeral Directors.”

There needs to be a comma in there but Steve's not about to fuss them about that, not on his second day on the job.

Barnes' office, that is, James Barnes the second's, is through Steve's. Steve's is small, cream, with a row of chairs against the wall, a nice-looking clock way up high, and a bunch of calla lilies in the window.

His desk is dark wood, maybe oak, with three drawers on each side. There's a ledger, a typewriter, a notepad, pens, pencils, ink, a telephone. The mat is a map of Brooklyn. There's a vase also, with another lily, and his chair is comfortable somehow.

Coffee's in the corner, and he'll fetch it if he needs.

It's the first thing he does this morning – cream, one sugar. He makes it, sets it inside in Barnes' office with the rest of the money he didn't spend, and goes back to his desk, opens the ledger.

Three in before ten this morning, and Steve knew Brooklyn could be bad in the winter, but he'd no idea so many people died.

Barnes hustles in at six-fifty, head down, paper tucked under one arm. He doesn't speak, he just walks straight past Steve and slams his door after him.

It's another five minutes before he comes back out and says without the coat or hat or papers,

“Let's see you then?”

Steve pushes back from the desk and stands, and Barnes' face kind of falls just a little. 

“You'll do?” he says, as though he's not certain, and he looks around Steve as though Steve were hiding something. “Turn?”

Steve sets his jaw but does as he's told.

“The hell did you go?” Barnes asks, and then, “Never mind. Jesus. Yeah, you're fine for today. Who's this morning?”

“Archer, Cole and Dean,” Steve responds. “At nine, nine twenty and nine forty.”

“Ah-huh,” Barnes says. 

He goes back into his office and Steve picks up his notebook.

“You're free until ten-thirty, and then you've got the Varney brothers, they're in until...twelve.”

Has he written that down right?

“Yeah, sure,” Barnes says. “Well my letters ain't gonna write themselves. Show 'em in when they're in, yeah?”

Steve nods, and then Barnes shuts the door, and Steve pulls out the wad of papers he didn't take home on Friday.

Adverts or condolence letters, or bills or lists of hymn numbers. Abide With Me, He Leadeth Me, How Great Thou Art. These are hymns Steve has been singing since before he could walk (and if he drooled against his mother's shoulder while the lights in the church shone off her hairpins, and made noises that weren't words while the congregation sang, then he was there and learned it young).

Irving Sedgwick's will needs to be read, Mrs...King is burying her husband William and wants psalm 23 read at the funeral. Steve's not sure that Barnes Barnes & Barnes are the people who ought to know this – shouldn't they be telling the priest? 

Steve shuts his eyes and breathes and then opens his eyes and looks at the page. It's his job. He can do this. It's lists, numbers, and names, he knows how to do this.

~

It's half past eight when Barnes yells at him from inside the office. 

“Rogers!” he says, and Steve lifts his head, checks the clock on the wall, looks back over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he says, and there's a pause.

“That means you're s'posed to come in?” Barnes answers, and Steve pushes back from the desk, stands up and sticks his head in the door. “There's a bakery over on-”

“Greenwood or Holy Cross?” Steve asks, and Barnes' eyebrow raises.

“Why d'you figure it's by a cemetery?” he says, and laughs when Steve makes a show of looking around the place.

Barnes laughs.

“What do I get you, how long do I got, and how do I pay for it?” Steve answers, and the skin around Mr Barnes' eyes crinkles.

“I like you,” he says. “I like you a lot – I'll have a Danish, so will Mr Archer, who takes his coffee like you take yours, and likes it hot and fresh, if you catch my drift-” 

Steve nods.

“-You can have whatever you want,” Barnes tells him, and fishes some change out of his pocket. “Expenses.”

Steve feels his eyebrows raise but takes the change and squints at it.

“They're real,” Barnes tells him, and Steve gives him a look that makes him laugh.

“I ain't dumb,” Steve tells him and then, quieter, like he's said a hundred times and he's tired of it by now, “just blind. You gave me a dollar in change?”

Danishes are a dime if they're not less – he could grab coffee for a nickel in the right places.

“Sure,” Barnes tells him, like a dismissal. 

Steve takes it as one, grabs for his coat and scarf and scatters the change in his pocket, and then he moves off.

“And I know how much Danishes cost!” Barnes yells after him and boy, if Steve thought he might be cold, his blood's up like hell now.

He casts an incredulous look over his shoulder at Barnes open door, and then he grits his teeth and leaves.

~

He doesn't get himself a damned thing.

He's already out of pocket one half-assed suit, and he's working for man who seems like the type to count favors.

He gets back with five minutes to spare, so he takes in the Danishes, gives Barnes his change, and he makes Mr Archer's cup of coffee, strong and black. 

“Hey,” Barnes says, but then Archer walks in.

He's a mean looking guy – dark hair, sharp nose, sharper eyes – he looks like a cross between a bird and a beanpole, and Steve passes him his coffee as he breezes past and says “Mr...”

Archer walks straight in, and Steve kind of half-follows in some belated attempt to warn Barnes.

“Archer?” he finishes lamely.

Mr Archer gives him a look like he's eating something unpleasant, and Barnes has gone red.

“Davy,” he says, in a voice Steve's never heard him use before – cold and flat. “Take a seat.”

Steve backs out, sits down, and then Barnes says,

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” in that low, disgusted tone.

Steve's instantly mortified - first day on the job, two Danishes in, and he's fucked up somehow. He goes back, leans in the door-

But Barnes wasn't talking to him.

“Close the door, wouldja, Stevie?” he says. “And then take a walk for ten.”

Steve blinks at him, looks again at the weird scarecrow of a man in an ugly grey coat, and then shuts the door. He grabs his coat, grabs his hat, leaves. Maybe this is a personal call, he supposes.

It's none of his business until it is his business.

He just leaving his office, door open, when a man steps out into the corridor outside it. Tall and dark and good-looking in a way-older-guy kind of way, he spots Steve and looks at him like Steve matters not at all. He looks mean, too, but bigger. A little more weight behind whatever he plans to do.

“Can I help you?” Steve says, and the man smiles.

It's familiar, there's something about it, and it makes Steve worry about where he might have seen it before.

“I know the way,” he answers, and he goes to move past Steve.

Steve steps in front of him, plants himself right in front of the guy, and that smile drops away like it was never there at all.

“Do you have an appointment?”

The guy just stares at him. 

“Jamie,” he shouts, staring at Steve the whole time. “You in there?”

Steve puts out a hand, sets it on the door frame.

“He's with a client,” Steve answers. 

The guy looks him up and down.

“You know who I am, Son?” he says, voice low and dangerous, and Steve straightens his shoulders.

“I know you ain't got an appointment 'til at least nine-twenty, and that's if you're name's Cole,” he answers. “You're welcome to wait in the-”

He feels the rush of air before he registers that it's because someone's pulled the other door open. And then Mr Barnes, James Barnes Junior, says,

“Da,” and Steve feels himself go white.

The guy just looks at him, and Steve tries not to be suddenly aware of how much taller this guy is than him – everyone is taller but James Barnes Senior is a towering giant of a man right now. This is someone who looms, and knows he can, and Steve takes one step to the side and James Barnes Senior stares hard at him as he passes and goes into his son's office, a twist to his lips Steve doesn't know where to begin understanding.

The door closes again behind them, and it's only the fact that Steve's been told to take a walk that stops him sitting down hard on the floor right there. He tugs on his things and goes to stand outside until Mr Archer and, God, oh God, Mr James Barnes Senior leaves.

Steve's not afraid of him, not quite. But he knows for damn sure he's screwed up.

~

At nine-fifteen, Mr Archer leaves. He leaves fast and doesn't look back, and he gives Steve a wide berth. He keeps his head down, his collar is turned up, and Steve watches him hustle down the pavement like he's got somewhere to be.

Then Steve looks back up at the building, at the flaking gold letters on the door and the stone steps. Inside, the squeaky old elevator doesn't want to behave, and the stairs look like they're falling to pieces, but there's a cream coloured room with Calla lilies waiting for him, and a pair of Barneses he needs to face.

If they're going to fire him, fine. He'll find somewhere else to work – somewhere else to live.

He will.

He climbs the stairs because so far he hasn't been told not to, and he stands in his warm office by his oak desk and waits.

Barnes Senior is first out of Barnes Junior's office, with Junior hot on his heels, and Steve straightens himself up, dusts his jacket down and waits.

“And this one?” Senior says. 

“Your place,” Junior responds, hands in his pockets as though Steve's a new car, and they're admiring the paintwork.

“Cad atá sé ag caitheamh?” Senior says, with a wry kind of smirk.

“Aontaím,” Junior answers. “But he did a good enough job for now.”

“He did,” Senior says, and he looks Steve up and down. “What wouldja 'a done if I'd not been his Da?”

Up until now, they've been talking to each other but looking at Steve. Steve doesn't know how he can tell that he's being spoken to directly now, but he shrugs one shoulder, keeps his head up.

“Didn't come to that,” he says, and then, “Sir.”

Barnes Sr laughs softly, glances back at his son. “D'you think you'd've stopped me if it had?”

Steve feels his own face tug into a smile, the small, dark kind that he's been wearing for too long, the type that speaks to what he says next.

“Don't have to,” he says. “All I gotta do is slow you down.”

There's a stretch of silence about two second long – lasts two ticks of the high-up clock on the wall – that feels like an eternity.

And then Senior's laughing, loud and deep before he claps Steve so hard on the shoulder that Steve has to plant both feet to stay upright.

 _“Is maith liom an buachaill!”_ he says, and the relilef of knowing he's liked still turns to irritation a moment later. _“Ach ní mór dó éadaí níos fearr.”_

Steve holds his tongue as Barnes Senior walks out. His clothes are fine, just like everything else, but it'd be rude to argue so he holds his tongue, he holds his-

 _“Spéaclaí de dhíth orm,”_ he says, hands curled into fists, and Barnes Senior stops, as does Barnes Junior, and they both stare at Steve.

It's true, but nothing new. Glasses are, in fact, something he's needed about as long as he can remember, and the point is that Steve has still made it this far without. He doesn't need improving, changing, he's made it this far without a suit or a pair of glasses.

But then Senior smles, the way his son smiles, and says, _“A fheiceáil chun é.”_

And then he's gone.

They take a moment to breathe, a moment when Barnes leans against the door frame and waits before he looks to Steve.

“Never told me you spoke the tongue,” he says, and Steve looks at him.

“Never asked,” he says.

“You need glasses?” Barnes Junior asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“It was something to say,” Steve answers. “And there's nothing wrong with my clothes.”

“Except you've got no weskit and you look like you got dragged here by the Mullaney boys,” Barnes answers – James, Jamie. 

“So that's Senior,” Steve says, trying to change the subject, and Barnes mutters a 'Jesus' with a 'y' halfway through it and snorts.

“God, don't let him hear you call him that,” he says. “I'm Jamie, he's James.”

Steve wrinkles his nose.

“I ain't callin' him 'James.' My mother'd wash my mouth out.”

“Call him Mr Barnes then. Mr Barnes. I'm only Mr Barnes when he ain't here and others is. So when it's you and me, how about you can call me Buchanan?”

Steve feels his mouth fall open, feels his eyes go a little wide.

“Bu...chanan?” he says, and Barnes the younger rolls his eyes. 

“Jamie ain't good enough for you, Buchanan ain't gonna do it either – anyone ever tell you you're a hard man to please?”

“High standards ain't somethin' to look down on,” Steve answers, but he's smiling. “Buchanan it is if that's what you want.”

Buchanan raises one eyebrow and shakes his head, but he's still smiling too.

“Least Da took to you. You don't pass with him, you don't pass at all,” he says, and he goes back into his office. “And Cole takes his coffee like mine.”

~

Steve takes a day or two to get his head around 'Buchanan.' He slips once or twice and calls him 'Mr Barnes' but it's not like he's wrong on that one, and Barnes – Buchanan - doesn't seem to mind.

He runs through the names in his head from time to time. 

James, Jamie, at least one person who's called him Jim by Friday, and Steve's surprised by the traffic that goes through.

The Barneses must be good – Buchanan consults, apparently, and even he's booked up until late every day.

At six forty-five, Steve comes in. At eight-thirty, he picks up breakfast (he still doesn't get a thing for himself) and Buchanan sends him out for lunch at one. By six, they're both tired and hungry, and Buchanan offers to drive him home every day until Friday, when Steve agrees.

“Sure.” he says, dead on his feet but warm. “Yeah, why not?”

Buchanan beams at him. 

“Come on, then,” he says. “I'll lock up.”

~

The car, the hearse, and why didn't that occur to Steve, is huge and shiny and black (of course it's black) and the inside is cool but not cold.

Steve gets into the passenger seat and a guy Steve doesn't know on the sidewalk doffs his cap at them.

Buchanan's coat and hat go onto the seat between them.

“Listen,” Buchanan says, checking the non-existent traffic before he pulls out, “Da meant what he said about your suit. It's all right but you need to be better.”

Steve pulls a face, but doesn't let Buchanan see it.

“I can't afford anything else,” he says. “I can't afford to pay you back for this as it is – won't for a long time.”

Buchanan blinks at him, staring as though Steve's turned purple or something, and then he shakes his head.

“Kiddo,” he says, and Steve grits his teeth, “it ain't a loan, it's a uniform.”

Steve looks at him, frowning.

“We kit everybody out,” Buchanan tells him. “You get two sharp suits and a soft one for quiet days. This is your soft one, right?”

Steve shakes his head.

“What?” he says, and Buchanan turns a corner. 

“Half the guys we employ wouldn't have the money for an undertaker's suit,” he says. “You think we're all up on Wall Street or somethin'?”

Steve feels his face heat a little – he's being made a fool of but he can't figure out why.

“You mean to tell me you're gonna buy me three suits, right off the bat, less than a week?”

Buchanan shrugs a shoulder.

“You're a week in the job now, ain't'cha? I'd've figured if you wasn't right for it. Here.”

He pulls a small piece of card-stock out of his pocket and holds it out in two fingers. 

“Go see O'Reilly down on third – he's a friend. He'll set you up.”

“I can't-”

“Go tomorrow,” Buchanan interrupts. “Take tomorrow, I'll pay you, and you go see O'Reilly. Tell him it's on Jamie's dime.”

Steve stares at Buchanan, without taking the card.

“You gonna take it, Stevie, I gotta drive?” he says a little panicked, and Steve takes it, reads it twice, looks back at Buchanan.

“I can't take this!” he says, incredulous. “You can't just go handin' me out-”

“It ain't charity,” Buchanan says, like he's tired of hearing it, like Steve's a fool for thinking it. “It's uniform. You want, I can get my Da to pay for it-”

“Jesus, no,” Steve mutters, and then again,”Jesus.”

Buchanan laughs softly.

“You don't gotta pay it back like Rosie and Jack or Allan or Lacey don't pay me back. Conrad got it for nothin', Paddy got it for nothin', I got it for nothin' and now so do you. O'Reilly'll take care a'you.”

They pull up to Steve's building – Barnes Sr' building – and Steve gets out, thanks him for the ride.

“I'll see you Monday,” Buchanan says, and then he grins, and then he drives away.

~

When he leaves on Saturday morning, his mother's home. She's not asleep, but she's not awake either – today she rests. He makes her breakfast and hand her the hairbrush, and she asks him what he plans to do today, so he tells her.

“I'm fetching a uniform,” he says. “Mr Barnes sent me.”

And he's told her all about his office, about those who to and fro there. It's only been a week but her eyes sparkle.

“You'll do well with them,” she says, and he nods as he grabs for his jacket.

“I hope so, Ma,” he says, and he bends to kiss her cheek. “You want I should bring home dinner?”

She smiles.

“If you're out,” she says, “you may as well...”

He laughs, kisses her again before he leaves, and then he sets out to find

O'Reilly is like something out of a book. He's got little round gold wire-rimmed spectacles that sit on his enormous beak, grey hair at his temples and none anywhere else, and a tape measure hung around his neck. He ain't got a jacket but he's got a nice pair of shoes, and he looks Steve up and down when the bell over his door goes.

The only identifying mark on the outside is a 'THIRTY SEVEN' written in words, on the glass of the door, under the same number carved into the sandstone above it.

“Hi,” Steve says, and O'Reilly lifts one bushy grey eyebrow.

“Who sentcha?” he says, and Steve frowns.

“Ja- Jamie,” Steve answers on his second try. 

It feels like insubordination to say it.

But O'Reilly's suddenly the jolly old man from the fairytales, eyes shining. They're big and dark and Steve would have expected blue.

“Stevie boy” he says. “Oh, I've heard all about you!”

Everyone's awful friendly for not knowing him, and a lot of people light up when somebody mentions the local Funeral Directors. And maybe Steve'll think of it later, recognise that maybe he's just wilfully ignoring what he kind of figures now – that that kind of reaction to that kind of profession ain't necessarily to be expected. 

~

O'Reilly gives him a little black box and says, “Give this to Jamie,” before Steve can go anywhere. “We'll have you dressed right soon as we can.”

Steve thanks him, bewildered, slips the box into his pocket and leaves.

~

His mother's sick that weekend, but she comes with him to church. They've done this since Steve remembers, and probably before. There are other mothers who stand with babies at their shoulders, and Steve stands now with his mother at his.

They're both slender, light-haired. It suits his mother (Steve has always looked scrawny but she's small boned the way birds are, delicate and beautiful). She smiles at him halfway through a hymn, and he smiles back.

He takes her out after, buys her coffee nice and rich. This month, he should be able to afford it.

~

Monday morning, there's a leather case about the size of his palm in the middle of the map of Brooklyn on his desk. He frowns at it and ducks his head to find out what it is.

Spectacles, apparently, which isn't really much of a surprise. If someone's left their glasses behind with Buchanan, it's likely they'd end up on Steve's desk. That way, Buchanan doesn't have to see them when they come in.

Steve has learned a lot this past week about the Buchanan conducts himself.

He's not a young man, Steve knows that much. They're all old beyond their years, but Steve feels inescapably young when Buchanan is around him. There are lines around Buchanan's mouth and eyes, his hair is shot through with silver and there are those silver sweeps at his temples. 

He dresses well, he speaks with experience and authority, and he arrives at six-fifty-five every morning, to an office in which Steve has already turned on the lights, is already making coffee. The room gets warm and Buchanan walks in wearing a hat and a coat and he likes his cut-glass ashtray to be next to his lamp, with a space for his coffee (on his coaster).

There's a green glass banker's lamp on his desk, which is bigger than Steve's, with an inlaid leather blotter. There's a huge leather armchair in the corner, a gorgeous patterned rug on the floor. He has his stationery, his papers,he has bookshelves lining the back of the room, a globe in the corner.

It's a gorgeous office. Still, Steve's isn't bad.

He sets the spectacles aside and gets to work until Buchanan comes in and looks at him. Then frowns.

“You ain't wearin' your glasses,” he says, and Steve looks up, feels his eyes widen. 

“I...what?”

“Da told me to see to you, remember? I left 'em there for you, what, you're suddenly cured?”

“I...” Steve says again, and then he looks at the little brown case. “These are mine?”

“Well yeah, whose else'd they be?”

He walks into his office, and Steve manages to choke out a thanks before the door closes.

Barnes is a quiet man who takes a lot of meetings from people who....Steve thinks maybe he understands. The type of people who come through here don't seem to be the sort of people he meets on the street. Maybe the consulting job is for a certain kind of person.

The clock ticks loudly, and he finds that it's a comfort.

~

On Tuesday, there's a funeral, at which Steve is required to stand alongside Buchanan, at a distance.

This, he's told, is not a test. He has to learn, he's told, so that he can fill in if needed. He feels like an idiot. 

They're at Greenwood, and there are lots of people in black who are gathered around a coffin that's waiting to be lowered.

“We stay outta the way,” Buchanan tells him. “Usually it's the old man's lot.”

And it is – Steve recognises the huge towerblock of the older Barnes, plus a couple of guys he hasn't met, doing most of the work.

“Your suits should be ready end of next week,” Buchanan tells him and Steve turns his head a little but keeps his eye on the funeral. 

“Yeah?” he says. “How'm I doin' so far?”

Steve is the simplest of receptionists. Barnes, Barnes & Barnes do not receive many telephone calls and all Steve really has to do is write things down and fetch baked goods. That and sending letters does not exhaust him. It's the next step up that's going to prove a challenge but, like any challenge, Steve is going to prove he can do it.

“You're good,” Barnes says, and he's dressed the part today.

His father has a top hat. The rest of them do not. When they leave Buchanan will be required to join them in procession, and today he's dressed the same as the rest of them. Black tailcoat, black waistcoat, black gloves, black shoes. The grey trousers, purple cravat and matching pocket squares mark Buchanan as one of their own, and Steve doesn't recognise anyone from the funeral party as someone whom Buchanan has seen over the past fortnight, but then, he's still not sure how the whole business is run.

His father, Barnes Senior, has a black cane topped with a silver ball, and Buchanan turns to Steve. 

“You gonna be okay getting' back from here?” he says.

It's not far, but he's learning just how difficult the everyday things are for Steve. Steve glances up at the sky – it's grey today but he'll do all right.

“Sure,” he says, because Senior's driving the hearse today. “You want I should pick somethin' up on the way back?”

Buchanan wrinkles his nose for a moment, thinking about it.

“Pick us somethin' up for lunch and you can leave early today. I ain't gonna have anyone in after my three o'clock, and I don't need you to stick around for that.”

Steve nods. He can manage that. He'll go home, then – get a little sleep in. He's, honestly, waitin for a paycheck. He just showed up – in a move that was probably one of the least smart things he's ever done – and isn't a hundred percent on what his salary is. Not that he cares at this point – the Barnes men know where he lives, what he has to cover. 

Steve can't think Buchanan would tell him to come work for them if he knew the pay wouldn't cover the apartment.

“Anythin' in particular?” he asks, and Buchanan smiles. 

“You know what I like,” he says and it's true – Steve does. 

It's only been a week and a couple of days, but he does. Buchanan will have packaged cheese and olives, or he'll have pastrami on rye, or he'll have egg salad, or he'll have a few different things, but Steve regards him.

“If I get a pastrami on rye with olives and cheese, you'll eat that, right?”

Buchanan smiles. 

“You bet,” he says. “And wouldja get somethin' you can eat, too? You never eat on my dime.”

“It's been a week,” Steve answers, and Buchanan rolls his eyes.

“You're getting' suits on my dime and you'll be living in my Da's building on our dime, so pick up a darned sandwich, okay?”

Steve nods slowly, not insanely pleased about it, but he could go for what Buchanan's having. 

“Sure,” he says, and he doesn't look as Buchanan tucks money into his pocket. 

He doesn't need to – he knows it'll be enough.

Across the lawn, between the headstones, Barnes Senior turns.

“I'm up,” Buchanan says. “See you back at the ranch.”

And Steve watches them process away before he leaves too.

~

On Wednesday afternoon, at around two-twenty-seven, Buchanan's two o'clock yanks the office door open and storms out, past Steve and past Buchanan's two-thirty.

“It happens again, Yancy, you're gonna explain it to Da!” Buchanan yells after him and Steve, halfway through a list of hymns, stares after the guy. 

Yancy doesn't bother waiting for the elevator, and Steve looks over his shoulder when Buchanan comes right on out into Steve's part of the place. 

“You next?” he says, hiding his anger not-at-all, to Bradford, and Bradford rises, nods, clearly unimpressed. “Well come on then!” 

Steve waits until the door is closed to take off his spectacles and clean them on the hem of his jacket, and spends the next fifteen minutes pretending that not only is such behaviour typical of the son of a Funeral Director but also that he can't hear the muffled arguments from inside Buchanan's office.

When Bradford leaves, he storms out too, and there's a bang from Buchanan's office that makes Steve get up and go see. It's not difficult – Bradford left the door open.

Buchanan is sitting against his window sill, the sash window open, which make a bang if you're violent enough about opening it, and there's a cigarette hanging from his fingers. He looks livid, and he glares at Steve when he comes in.

“What?” Buchanan says, and Steve takes off his spectacles and squints through them before putting them back on, folding his arms over his chest.

“I get you anything?” he says, and Buchanan leans back, looks him up and down.

“No,” he says eventually, but he looks less angry. “Less you can pass me my ashtray?”

“That depends,” Steve says. “You gonna pass me a cigarette?”

Buchanan narrows his eyes but produces them anyway, and Steve ignores the scratching in the back of his throat when Buchanan holds a match out for him.

Buchanan indicates that Steve should take the large, comfy looking chair in the corner, and Steve does because he's non-verbally told to, and because it looks like a comfy chair. 

He waits until he's maybe half way through his cigarette before he speaks again, and he considers making more small talk. He thinks about asking which tobacco Buchanan prefers, or asking him to close the window. It's still winter, after all and, despite the fact that the window's probably open for air more than ventilation, despite the fact that Steve's wearing a good suit, it's still cold.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Steve asks and, for a moment, Buchanan looks like he might.

Then he shakes his head.

“Finances,” he says. “They don't want to pay me.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and tries to look as absolutely casual as he can.

“Seems like it's a recurring problem,” he says, and Buchanan narrows his eyes. 

“Big family,” he says. “Lot of 'em were old, lot of 'em died during winter and more of 'em's goin' now. Seen a lot of him as of late, and he don't like to keep up with his figures. Means I'm gonna have to see my Da about it, and I ain't lookin' forward to that.”

Steve looks at him, wonders about a man Buchanan's age being so hung up on his Da's opinion, but then, it's his Da's business.

“You want me to call him?” he says, and Buchanan looks at him like he's about to say yes.

“I...” he says. “No, he'd kill me. That ain't your responsibility, it's mine.”

And when they're finished up with their cigarettes, Steve makes coffee and pretends he doesn't hear Buchanan on the phone to his father.

“Yeah,” he says, a long pause, “yes, Sir.” Another pause. “Flaherty,” and another. “Yes, Sir – again. I'll apologize to Bradford.”

He looks down at the book he's keeping and the psalms to be sung, the hymns to be played. Mr Garfield's memorial. Mrs Downe.

Next week, Mr Flaherty's has another appointment, and it's followed up by.....by Mrs King. Who's back again, apparently. Steve wonders if that will be a meeting marked about payment, too.

When Buchanan's done speaking to his father, he comes out to Steve.

“Cancel my nine o'clock tomorrow,” he says, sounding tired. “My father's coming in.”

Steve nods, does as he's asked to make Mr Barnes' appointment the first one of the morning, calls and lets them know, and then he stares at the book.

Buchanan goes back into his office and leaves the door open, and Steve stares at that name. Flaherty. Flaherty.

He makes an executive (secretarial) decision.

~

He's told to take another walk when Mr Barnes arrives. 

Actually, he's told to take a little longer to find something to eat, and he stops into a diner and sits down for a cup of coffee. It's good, rich and aromatic, and he eats waffles because he was told to eat something, and because they're warm and they taste good (they taste so good). 

They fill him up, them and his coffee, and he closes his eyes for a moment or two and enjoys the feeling. Sweetness on his tongue, the smell of the coffee, the warm, heavy feeling in his stomach.

“Y'okay, sugar?” somebody asks, and Steve opens his eyes to smile at the waitress as he nods.

“Thank you, ma'am,” he says, “haven't had a breakfast that good for a long time. You set me up for today.”

She beams at him, and he leaves her a nice tip – something he makes a note to remember to tell Buchanan when he gets back. Soon as he's paid, he'll pass it him back.

~

When he steps out of the elevator, he comes face to face with Barnes Senior.

“Morning, Sir,” he says, and Senior looks him up and down.

“Better,” he says. “When's O'Reilly gettin' those suits to ya?”

“He says should be this week or next,” Steve answers, and Senior steps into the elevator.

“Enjoy your breakfast?” he asks, and Steve nods.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says. “Left her a good tip; you can take it out of my pay.”

Senior smiles.

“Good man,” he says. “Don't worry about your pay – you're representing the establishment.”

~

Towards the end of the week, a dark-haired young woman comes in with a cigarette lit in one hand, and she smiles at Steve.

“Well, well,” she says. “And you must be Stevie.”

“Ma'am,” he says, looking up from his papers.

He pushes back from the desk and stands, and she smiles.

“My name's Rebecca,” she says, and Buchanan hustles out of the office.

“You're early,” he says, kissing her cheek. “I see you've met my new assistant.”

“I hear a lot of people've met your new assistant,” she says. “He's younger'n I thought he'd be.”

Buchanan laughs.

“He's your age!” he says, and she squints at him. 

“Couple years younger,” she says, “but close enough. We goin' out now, Bucky, or are we headed out later?”

Buchanan cocks his head, looks at his clock.

“Come on in for now,” he says. “We'll go out to lunch in a bit. Stevie, this is my sister, Becca.”

“Pleasure,” Steve says, taking the hand she holds out to him. “Will you need me at lunch, Mr Barnes-”

“Ooh, 'Mr Barnes'!” Rebecca mimics.

“-or it is lunch for pleasure?” he finishes, smiling.

“Lunch for pleasure,” Buchanan answers, just as Rebecca snorts.

“Your treat, I might add,” she says.

They go into Barnes' office and Barnes shuts the door.

~

The weekend passes fairly easily, and on Sunday, Steve goes to church with his Ma.

When they come back, there's a man he doesn't know waiting at his door with boxes that are kind of big. Steve worries for a moment that he's bought something accidentally, but there's a mark on the corner of the box that reads “37” and Steve understands.

He thanks Mr O'Reilly's man, and takes the boxes inside.

“They look expensive,” his Ma says, and Steve nods.

“Mm,” he says. “But Mr Barnes says they're uniform.”

“You going to show me?” his Ma says, and he smiles.

“You want to see me?” he says. “It's a Funeral Director's. It's just black.”

She just gives him a look, and he laughs and goes into the other room.

“They oughta fit,” he says. They don't have a door on that doorway, so she can hear him. “Mr Barnes had 'em done to fit me.”

“Well you might finally have a pair of trousers that doesn't need holding up,” Ma says.

He scoffs.

When he's unpacked them, he's staring at a black suit, and a black pinstriped suit. He can alternate the jackets, he thinks. Wear the striped waistcoat with the black trousers. He's got two sharp suits and one soft one, and there are five white shirts inside.

There's even ties, pocket squares, in the rich purple of the Barnes' establishment. The material is strong and supple, and so he tries on the stripes just to see how it feels.

He stands in his little bedroom in his little apartment and feels like somebody who can be proud of himself.

Mr O'Reilly's card is in the box also, one for each, and so Steve tucks one into the pocket of each vest. Even if he has to take his jacket off, they'll always be to hand that way.

And, right at the bottom of the box, there's a small, brown stain.

It looks dry and there's a tinge to it – like rust. Mr O'Reilly's a tailor – he's bound to have pricked himself with a needle or caught himself on the scissors or something, and yet the same feeling Steve's had for a little while starts to gnaw away at the back of his skull.

Names pop up time and again in Buchanan's books, his appointments. Everybody knows him, everybody's happy to see him, and Steve ain't a fool. He could let it slide, let it go, but he's not sure his conscience will allow it. At least, not without a couple of questions.

“Well?” Ma says, and he remembers he's meant to be showing her. 

He goes back out and she stares at him as though he's the best thing she's ever seen.

“Look at you,” she says. “My boy. How do they fit?”

Steve looks down at himself.

“Well,” he says. “And if they're willin' to kit me out, they must be willin' to keep me. Right?”

She looks proud of him, he realizes. She's not just pleased, she's proud, and the warmth of it wells up in his chest.

“Hey,” Steve says, “I'm gonna go see Dad. You wanna come with?”

She looks pained, and she picks up a handkerchief.

“Will you say hello to him for me?” she says, and then she looks down.

“Aw, Ma,” Steve says, and he goes to her, bends down to hug her.

She's been sick a couple of times lately, the second time worse than the first. She works every hour God sends, and he doesn't see her as often as he'd like, but it'll change soon.

“You wait, Ma,” he says. “I should be getting paid in a little bit, and I'm gonna take you somewhere. We'll go, it'll be great, you can eat whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” she says, and he nods, takes her cool hands in his.

“Lobster,” he says. “Caviar. We'll have steak every night.”

“And fish on-”

“Fridays,” he finishes, smiling the way she smiles.

He's got her features, you can see they're related when they stand together.

“Swordfish,” he says. “What...something else expensive.”

“Salmon,” his mother says, and he nods. 

“That too.”

She laughs.

“Go see your father, then come home. I'm in this evening but I'll have to work a nightshift tomorrow.”

“I won't be long,” he answers. 

He kisses her cheek. He stays in the suit, why not?

Then he goes out.

The neighbourhood's small and there are a few cemeteries. He visits his father's grave because he's wearing a suit, he's respectable now, he wishes he could have seen it. He knows his mother misses him. Steve doesn't remember him, but there's a photograph his mother keeps, and Steve has his father's compass.

There's a couple of other people out and about today, a lady who's standing by a stone maybe twenty feet away, a gent who's...

That's...

That's Mr Archer.

That's Mr Archer but he doesn't seem like he's looking for a grave. 

He's got a small bunch of flowers that he takes with him – red – and he sets them down by the end of the path and then walks away, and Steve knows the answers already to the questions he's gonna want to ask. 

Who comes to a funeral director's consultant son on the regular, like once a week? What kind of consultant keeps their kind of hours? What kind of business keeps their consulting office so far away? What kind of man takes a bunch of flowers to a graveyard and doesn't put them on a grave?

Problem is, does he find a new job or ask questions? Because the type of profession to give rise to questions like the ones Steve's got is just the type of profession to dislike questions.

He goes home, he gets out of his suit. He'll shower, he'll eat. He'll play cards maybe with his Ma, maybe they'll listen to next door's wireless.

He has to be to bed early, because he has to be up for work tomorrow, an he tries not to think of the implications of the things that he's seen.

~

Monday morning, Steve takes a look back through the book he keeps.

He takes a look through the bills he's sending out.

He checks the hymn numbers he lists.

He looks at the client names.

He's no fool.

~

On Tuesday, his mother comes home just as he's leaving, and she's pale, bags under her eyes.

“Ma?” he says, and she smiles wanly, but she looks about ready to collapse. “Ma, come on in, Ma,” he says, and he takes her shoes and he fetches her cardigan and he already warmed some milk for himself, so he pours her a glass.

“You're a good boy,” she tells him, and it doesn't sound patronizing when it comes from her.

“You gonna be okay if I go?” he says, and her whole expression warms.

Always does when she looks at him.

“My boy,” she says, and she rests her hand against his cheek. “I managed how many years without you?”

Steve's mouth drops open in surprise, and then he sticks his tongue out.

She laughs, and sits forward.

“Your own mother!” she says. “How could you?”

He walks around behind her, kisses the top of her head.

“I'll see you tonight, Ma?” he says, and she nods, sighing softly.

“Have a good day at work,” she tells him. “Work hard. Make lots of money. Buy me pretty things!”

“Yes, Ma,” he tells her, and sets off.

 

 

 

Steve's first payday with the Barneses is almost a thing of beauty until he convinces himself they've got it wrong.

Pointer was paying him the kind of petty cash that amounted to maybe ten dollars a week, sightly more but certainly not by much.

Barnes pays him twenty-five.

“Holy,” he gets as far as, and then he shakes his head. “This is...”

Somebody's pen must've slipped, except he's a good guy. He takes it to Barnes, to Buchanan, and tells him so, and Barnes just smiles.

“Kiddo,” he says, “your asthma and your ears and your eyes, and your anaemia and your scoliosis and your flat feet, don't think I didn't notice, and your Ma who I've never met 'cause she's always asleep or workin'?”

“But a hundred?” he breathes. “A hundred a month? I ain't doin' enough for that, Buchanan, I can't-”

“How's your Ma doin'?” Buchanan asks, and Steve looks down at what he holds in his hands, and thinks of her wan smile and her cool hands.

“I...” he says and,when he looks up, Buchanan's expression is soft around the edges.

“She raised a good man,” he says. “And I know you've said she needs a rest. Let her take one. God knows I'd want someone to do the same for me if it were my Ma.”

Steve doesn't want charity, but Buchanan even sees that. 

“Steve,” he says, “it ain't a favour. You do me a job, you'll have to do more soon. You work Saturdays and your Ma's sick, and you're living in our building, Kiddo. You work for us, we take care a'you and yours. Just take what you've earned, okay?”

Steve stares at it a moment longer, but he nods slowly, eventually.

“Thank you,” he says, and Buchanan shrugs.

“You're welcome,” he says. “How 'bout you show me your appreciation by pickin' me up some breakfast?”

Steve laughs, nods a little.

“I'm buyin,'” he says, and Buchanan rolls his eyes, but he lets Steve have this one.

~

Wednesday rolls around again, and Flaherty's in at eleven. As Steve expects, Flaherty's in and causing trouble within minutes, and their voices are raised enough that he's glad nobody else is in their little office.

When Flaherty leaves this time, he's pale, and Buchanan stalks out of his office and says “who's next?” and Steve says,

“Nobody.”

Buchanan pins him with a look that could melt steel and says, 

“Tell me that again, Stevie, 'cause I coulda sworn I had one of the Varney's in after him. Wanna tell me why they cancelled?”

Steve takes off his glasses.

“They didn't cancel,” Steve says, and Buchanan's eyes go a little wider, and then they narrow.

“Oh, this is gonna be good, Stevie boy, go on. Should I pull up a chair?”

Steve grits his teeth and pulls out the top drawer of his desk.

“I been lookin' through the books and the bills and the papers and I gotta say, I didn't get why a consultant'd be so far from the Funeral Directors.”

Buchanan is starting to look like he's capable of a lot more than Steve considered, but Steve keeps going because he's got a point to make.

“Last week you had Flaherty in and then Bradford, and then you had to say you were sorry to your old man for the way you spoke to the latter.”

“Listenin' in, Stevie? Keep on going, it all adds up.”

“Flaherty gets you riled up – I looked. Every time he's been in for the past two months, you've had your Da in after. So today, I moved the Varney brothers to this afternoon and you can cool off over lunch. You and me, we'll go out – there's a nice little diner I know.”

Buchanan stares at him.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“You heard,” Steve answers. “Flaherty pisses you off, and I'm betting he pisses off your old man, too, but there ain't no sense you lettin' that ruin your day or your business. I know somewhere the waffles are good – you come with me, forget about Flaherty, and we'll come back this afternoon, and you can get on with whatever you're doing.”

Buchanan narrows his eyes.

“You looked back through the books?”

“You never told me not to,” Steve answers. “In fact, I would have thought you'd want me to. You can't be expectin' that I won't figure out what this is. So that makes these weeks a test.”

Buchanan waits, watches him.

“Your bills ain't bills,” Steve says. “The consistency's wrong. What costs so much this week cost more the week before and less than the first time now. Your hyms are all the same, depending on which church they're bein' sung in. There's five cemeteries in Brooklyn if you count the split in Evergreens and ignore everything past Ridgewood. I don't follow it all yet, I don't know what you're moving or what you're doing, but I know it's there. I know the names of the dead you bury are stops I can get on the trolley.”

Buchanan nods slowly.

“Go on,” he says.

“I can't read what this really says, but I know it's there to read. And I know Flaherty pisses you off.”

Buchanan comes right in, stands right next to Steve and looms over him.

“Think you and I need a word with Da,” he says. “Don't you?”

~

Steve feels like a dead man walking when a huge man he hasn't met shows up at the door.

Buchanan's made him wait until then, telephoned ahead and then waited for an escort, and they all go off together. It's maybe four blocks down to James Barnes Senior's side of the business, and the huge guy – Rosie, Steve learns the guy's name is – doesn't look like a funeral director.

He looks like muscle. 

Buchanan walks ahead of him, and Rosie walks behind, and Steve's made it half a block before he catches his toe and nearly kisses the sidewalk.

“Some long legs you got there, Mr Barnes,” Steve says, and Buchanan, who is halfway through a cigarette, doesn't look at him but does slow his pace.

They reach the Funeral Director's office in a longer time than Buchanan usually likes to take, but they don't pause. They go right on in, and there are two people in the waiting room, but Buchanan and Steve and Rosie walk straight past.

Barnes Senior is waiting for them, next to a table – big and long and metal.

Steve knows what it's for and he sucks in a breath. He's not about to show fear now.

“Da,” Buchanan says, and Jesus, Barnes Snior looks about ready to spit nails.

Stteve's only seen him once or twice but he's wearing the kind of calm fury that means Steve probably isn't walking out of here – either because he's getting his legs broken, or because he won't be doing much of anything.

“My mother's sick,” he says. “She ain't part o'this.”

Barnes Senior's eyebrows go up into his hair, and he looks to Buchanan. Buchanan covers his mouth, shakes his head.

“Excuse me?” Senior says, looking back at Steve. “You're in this now, you think you can tell me who to lay off of?”

Steve squares his shoulders and lifts his head.

“Think I'm gonna go home from a job like yours and tell my mother anything?”

“That depends, Stevie Boy,” Senior answers. “You think her knowing or not changes what it'd do to you knowing you caused it?”

Steve grits his teeth.

“You do what you want with me,” he reiterates. “You leave my Ma out of this.”

Senior still looks like he can't quite believe what he's hearing, and he turns to Buchanan.

“You said he changed your appointments?”

“Yeah,” Buchanan answers. “Shifted everybody after Flaherty 'cause he looked back and saw you in all the mornings after.”

Barnes senior lights a cigarette too, and perches on the edge of that table.

“You told me he knows?”

“He can speak for himself,” Steve answers before Buchanan can answer. “You want to know what I know? It's nothin'. Like I told Buchanan-”

“Buchanan?”

“- I can't read what it says; I just know it's there to read. Bills that don't add up, names that are trolley stops, the same families in over and over. Did you know you buried William King twice?”

Senior blinks, his mouth opens, he looks at Buchanan.

“Did we,” he says, not a question at all. 

“I went to visit my Da in Green Cross,” Steve says. “Saw Mr Archer there with a bunch of flowers he didn't leave for nobody, and Buchanan yells at a good three guys a week for somethin' I'm guessin' ain't to do with hymns and lillies.”

Senior leans back a little, regards Steve.

“When'd we last bury William King?” he says.

“November last year,” Steve answers. “Right about the time Mr Archer lost his brother.”

“You know who's in later on today?” Senior says. “You know what you've done?”

“Bradford's in,” Steve answers. “Got a guy called Gregg and a dame called Cartwright and I know they ain't all stops.”

“What hymns we play for Mr King?” Senior asks, keeping on eye on his son, and Steve shakes his head.

“Last time, I don't know. I didn't check. This time, Abide With Me, and he had psalm 23 also.”

Senior takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out away from Steve. Maybe it's manners, maybe he knows about Steve's asthma, and Steve's trying not to think about how long his Ma'll last if he washes up in the harbor. If he even washes up in the harbor – who'd question a body at a funeral parlor?

Senior nods. Looks at Buchanan and looks straight at Steve.

“We know men like you,” he says. “Smarter than we thought, picked up on things faster, but it don't change what you are.”

“And what am I?” Steve says.

Senior smiles, tight and hard.

“A liability,” he says, and Steve feels his blood go cold.

It couldn't be anything else, but he was holding out hope until that moment.

“If we let you go, Stevie Boy, you're too good of a man to keep this to yourself, ain'tcha? We do good work, we keep an eye open, we run the streets. We don't take nobody's sons from their mothers 'less we got no choice, but you'll find somebody you trust to tell, or you'll never come near us again, and you'll always be a weak link. I can't let that happen.”

Steve glances at Buchanan. Buchanan looks at his shoes, turns away.

“Any requests?” Senior asks, standing, and Steve's mouth falls open.

Of course, he thinks. Of course they'll do this now, of course this is it. Part of him still didn't think of it, part of him knows what he's meant to feel.

Rosie waits outside the door – even if he ran, he'd never run fast or far enough.

His heart is week and his lungs fail, his life won't be long anyhow.

But he's always clung to the life he's got, kept that gift from his mother because it came from her, and she loved him through it.

He's going to die.

“Three,” Steve answers, ignoring the pain in his throat. “First, make it fast and clean. She'll want an open casket.”

Buchanan stares at him.

“Second, don't tell her. Make something up – tell her I ran for the trolley and my heart gave out. She'll believe that.”

Senior takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves while Steve speaks.

“And take care of her,” Steve says. “I know you can afford it, and she can't make the rent on her own.”

Senior nods.

“I like a man who knows how to stand his ground,” he says. “You know what kind of work we do?” 

Steve frowns, looks at Buchanan.

“I can guess,” he says, and Buchanan snorts.

“No,” Buchanan says. “You think women and pain and I promise you, we run the streets to keep 'em clean.”

“Sure,” Steve answers. “Saving little old ladies.”

“Protecting people, running booze, making sure people who don't got nowhere to turn find somewhere.”

Steve narrows his eyes.

“If you're going to do it, do it,” he says, and Senior shakes his head. 

“We're doing nothing,” he says. “Except paying you a hundred a month to keep your mouth shut and your mother warm. So tell me this, it is money I'm wasting?”

And Steve stares.

“What?” he says, and his voice is loud in the cold room.

Buchanan laughs.

“Are you with us?”

And Steve's first reaction is no. His first reaction is 'what would Ma think' but then he thinks of her and her shining gold hair and her smile, and her thin wrists and the shadows under her eyes, and it's not so bad. Buchanan isn't ordering hits. The same people come in, week in, week out.

And part of him wants to stand up and say something, but part of him knows that there are just as many men in the local PD likely to cause problems as there are to solve them.

He wants to stand up to them, to tell them he doesn't need dirty money, but is it dirty?

And does that matter when his mother comes home exhausted ten times outta ten?

“For a hundred dollars a month,” Steve answers, and his mother's health.

Senior nods, holds out a hand. Steve takes it automatically, and Senior shakes it enough to make Steve's teeth rattle in his head.

“Welcome to the family, son,” he says.

~

They talk, they discuss what's going to happen, how Steve's going to learn, but Steve's got a head for this kind of thing. He'll do just fine.

They leave the funeral parlor, and Buchanan hooks one arm around Steve's neck, yanking him inward in a walking hug.

“Good job, Stevie,” he says. 

Steve, who is just about able to get air into his lungs, and just about able to hear Buchanan speak over the thundering noise his heart is making, is still not quite able to believe he's not dead, still not able to believe what just happened.

“This,” he gasps, “was a test?” 

Buchanan laughs, full and loud, tugs Steve a little closer.

“I got somethin' for you,” he says.

~

The little black box O'Reilly had him pass on is still in Buchanan's jacket pocket, it would seem, because he produces it once Rosie's left them alone.

Buchanan takes it out, gives it to Steve, and Steve frowns at it, opens the box to find something that looks at first like a piece of twisted metal.

He picks his glasses up off the desk and takes a better look as Buchanan chuckles, and find that it's a tiny silver Calla lily. It's a pin, in fact, and Buchanan lets him get a good look at it before he takes it back out of Steve's hands and removes the pin from the box.

He reaches out, then, turns Steve's lapel inward, and affixes the lily to the back of it. 

“Much as I like the purple,” Buchanan says, “that's our real mark. Anybody gives you a problem, or you need a favor from anybody, you just show 'em the pin.”

He turns Steve's lapel back, brushes non-existent dust off his shoulders and smiles.

“Let's get you those numbers, Kiddo,” he says, turning around. “And listen, I know the kinda guy you are – let me find you the ledgers, I'll show you what we do here. Okay?”

Steve nods, looks down at his lapel even though there's nothing to see. 

And then he follows Buchanan into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder - if you liked this, I will be taking prompts for little bits and pieces for this universe over at [my tumblr](http://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com/ask). Drop by and give it a go!

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder - if you liked this, I will be taking prompts for little bits and pieces for this universe over at [my tumblr](http://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com/ask). Drop by and give it a go!


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